


Finding Space Mountain

by otter



Category: The Martian (2015)
Genre: Chris Beck/Beth Johanssen (discussed), M/M, Mark Watney/Chris Beck/Beth Johanssen (future), Multi, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Relationship Negotiation, ares3some (future)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:39:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8338417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otter/pseuds/otter
Summary: Watney's had a little too much time to think about all the things he's never done with his life. It's time to start catching up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't beta-read at all and I was super unsure of how to tag it, also. If you have any suggestions for additional or better tags, please let me know. I mostly have had such a rough time trying to write lately, and trying to finish this fic at all, that I just wanted to put it up here before I could start to second-guess myself. :D

If you'd asked me, before I got back to the Hermes — not that you could have asked me anything, since I was stranded alone on Mars, but honestly I would've loved to talk to you — I would have told you that my worst night _ever_ was the first one back in the Hab, after the air lock blew out. I've had bad nights before, sure, even a few in college that I still can't remember but my buddies from back then are more than happy to describe in detail. (Occasionally to the press, if they're feeling particularly vengeful or I've recently cleaned them out at our Friday night poker game.) But no amount of drunk or sick or abandoned-by-sexual-partners-in-compromising-positions (we won't discuss that one) can compare with the true pants-shitting terror of lying awake, listening to the sound of canvas and duct tape snapping in the wind of a sandstorm, knowing that you're a single small puncture away from being sucked out into the inhospitable airless void.

Still, somehow, this feels worse.

It's a different kind of terror, I guess; less immediately life-threatening, but more of a mind-fuck. The Hermes has its own reassuring night sounds, faint hums and the hushed sweeping sound of rotation almost like a tide. Right now, staring up into the darkness, and listening to the slow, deep, even breathing of another human being, I'm not completely convinced that any of this is real.

I take a breath in, and wonder if I'm going to wake up in the Rover, still somewhere in the middle of Acidalia Planitia, hungry and half-crazed with it, and maybe I'll just end up driving and driving and driving until it kills me. Maybe I'm already dead. Maybe I died when that antenna hit me the first time, and everything after was just some elaborate ghost-hallucination. Maybe I'll get to haunt the Ares IV mission site and fuck with their heads. Maybe—

The Hermes makes its own night noises, but they're not loud enough to stop my mind from racing in endless, frustrating circles. I'm not sure I'm ever going to sleep again. Maybe I'll slowly succumb to sleep deprivation, instead of starvation. Maybe even now that I'm safe, for a given value of safe that involves extremely risky space travel, I still won't make it all the way home. There are too many ways to die out here, and now, if it happens, I probably won't be alone.

I try to hold the words in. I really do. I'm just too used to saying whatever comes to mind, these days, for the benefit of the many records I made that one day I'll undoubtedly find embarrassing, but also because sometimes the sound of my own voice was almost like talking to another person. Also, I'm not gonna lie, I used to talk to the Sojourner rover like it was a dog. I considered adding floppy ears and a little Hab-canvas tail, but even I've got a little dignity left. (They wouldn't stick very well, and when I duct-taped the left ear on it covered one of the sensors.)

Anyway, when I say, "Do you think Beyoncé would win if she ran for president? Beck? Beck, wake up. We need to talk about this," it's mostly because I don't have any self-control left. I used it all up on rationing food while I slowly starved to death. I'm going to indulge myself in basically everything when I get home. I'm going to stop working out and I'm going to eat every dessert I can lay my hands on and nobody will be able to stop me. I might start earlier than that, even, if Beck can just loosen up a little and stop mother-henning me.

Beck doesn't wake up. He does kind of twitch in his sleep, though. It's cute, but I kind of think everything is cute these days. Speaking of embarrassing, I seem to be delighted by every tiny human gesture. There is nothing about my crewmates that I don't find completely and utterly delightful, even when Beck is strictly limiting my diet (apparently eating too much too soon after almost starving to death could also kill me, but I feel like it might be worth it) and Martinez is giving me constant shit and Lewis is bossing me around with a stupid fond look on her face. Vogel said something sappy at dinner and I almost cried; Johanssen held my hand and I _did_ cry.

Beck's still not waking up.

"Beck," I say, and reach out to shake his shoulder. He's not far away, sleeping on the floor next to his own bunk, because apparently the Hermes isn't holding up perfectly to the extended mission and some of the crew quarters are too hot to sleep in. There are a couple of us doubled up, and Beck was kind of insistent about being around for me through the night. He made like he wanted to make sure I was physically okay, but I think he might actually have an idea that I cracked mentally a _really_ long time ago. He probably thinks I require professional supervision.

He rolls over immediately, the second my hand touches him; he sits up like he was having a dream about being back at boot camp and he's hearing reveille.

"Mark?" His voice is all scratchy with sleep and god help me it's fucking _adorable._ "What's wrong? Are you—"

"If Beyoncé was elected president, who do you think she'd want as her VP? I mean I thought Missy Elliot, maybe, but Nicki Minaj seems like a pretty strong contender, too."

"The fuck," Beck says, and rubs at his face.

"We're gonna be back in time for the 2036 election," I say, maybe a little too defensive. "She could run, you don't know."

Beck says, "Are these the deep existential questions you were pondering day after day on Mars?"

"Beats wondering if you're going to die today."

He wants to throw back some kind of flippant reply, I can tell, and it's not because he's not worried about me (they're all worried about me, always, even now that I'm back), it's because he knows I'm not that good at serious questions.

He asks it anyway.

"You thought about that a lot? Dying?"

"It came up a lot," I say, which is true. "But I didn't think about it a lot. I asked myself, 'What would the pre-eminent Doctor Christopher Beck tell me to do in this situation?' and the answer was 'Keep your spirits up so you don't die. And also don't touch Beck's stuff.' I did touch your stuff, by the way. I touched everybody's stuff. I know you have good taste in music, you couldn't have brought some tunes along? Lewis did, because she hates me."

"I left my music on the Hermes so you couldn't steal it."

"That's harsh, Beck."

"But fair. What else did you think about?" Chris Beck is an intergalactic treasure. He sits up and drapes his arms over his knees, like he's perfectly happy to be awake and discussing bullshit after just a couple hours of sleep.

"Aquaman. Potatoes. Why potatoes are so boring. Did you know Johanssen has Leather Goddesses of Phobos on her laptop?"

Beck snorts a laugh. "Yeah, she let me play it on the trip out. Said she couldn't stand to be around such a neophyte anymore and she needed to give me a real cultural education."

"She is such a nerd." My voice comes out a lot more fond than I'd like, but at least it's honest. She is a nerd. I am heartbreakingly fond of her.

"Possibly the biggest nerd in this solar system," Beck agrees. I haven't asked him yet about whether he took the advice I gave him, to finally make a move. I'm thinking about something else. And I'm thinking I won't be able to actually say it if I know that Beck and Johanssen are more than just nerd-bros.

"I didn't ponder my own mortality too much, but I did think about a lot of things I haven't done. I sort of made a mental list."

"If you're trying to ask me to be your wingman for a trip to Disneyland, Mark, the answer is yes."

"Okay, that was admittedly on the list. I just thought it would be really hilarious for actual astronauts to ride Space Mountain. And I was maybe planning to leave some reviews online about how the experience compares to real space travel."

"'This ride is bullshit, did not even achieve low earth orbit.'"

"'There were far too many crew members in our pod for the journey and not enough supplies; we had to eat Martinez on the last leg of the journey just to make sure we made it back in good enough health to purchase souvenirs.'"

"Gross," Beck says, and laughs, and I can just make out the curved edge of his smile in the low, warm light that barely illuminates the crew quarters during sleep cycles. His teeth are just the slightest bit crooked; I can't see them, but I know it already, because maybe I've been paying too much attention. My heart trips over itself. I can do this now, or not at all, and I'm not sure which option is the right one.

"I haven't done lots of things, though," I say, and the words just come out of me like someone else is saying them, I'm that fucking terrified and excited and completely fucked up in the head. "I've never sucked another guy's cock before. I guess I hadn't really thought about it until I did, and then I thought about it kind of a lot."

He doesn't get up and run. He doesn't laugh. He just looks at me, his eyes unreadable in the near-darkness, just reflecting the smallest pinpricks of white, like the lonely light of far away stars.

Yeah, I had some time to develop my skills of poetic rumination and shit, too.

Beck doesn't say anything either, though, and I'm not sure if he's waiting for me to dig my own grave or if he's letting me— if he's letting me see this through, giving me the lead, willing to listen.

Maybe willing.

"I kind of thought about your dick, specifically," I say, because I'm already there, spinning out of control toward a total disaster, and I figure it's go big or go home. Possibly go big and go fuck your life up, but Beck's okay. Beck's more than okay. Beck's probably not even the littlest bit gay, but he's not going to be mad about this. I don't think. "I thought a lot about what it'd be like. I mean, not what it looks like, because I've seen it in the showers and I guess at the time I didn't put much thought into my willingness to see another guy's dick. But like, I've thought about what it'd be like to touch you. And what you'd sound like. And whether you'd let me. And I learned to only think about that at night when the rover was parked because trying to drive a Mars rover over challenging terrain with one hand while jerking off with the other isn't the smartest move you can make on an alien planet. Please say something. Please shut me up if I'm freaking you out."

I finally manage to snap my mouth shut. Beck opens his. I can't help but brace for impact, just a little.

"I've sucked another guy's dick," he says, finally, and that's— I was not expecting that. Maybe I'm kind of prejudiced. I sort of assumed, with how moony he looks over Johanssen sometimes. But that's stupid, right? There aren't only two options. I can't help but feel I should be less stupid than this, seeing as I was selected to travel into space.

"How, uh. How was it?"

"Which time?" Beck says, and yeah, he's definitely smiling again, maybe laughing at me a little, but not in a mean way. In more of a 'gosh it's fun to learn we share a mutual interest in sucking cock' kind of way.

I'm starting to wonder again if all of this is a hallucination.

Beck shifts a little, I can see the outline of his shoulder rise and fall. "I like it," he says. "If that's what you're asking, whether it's good? I like it. I guess some people don't care for it. I think it depends who I'm with. If I'm really into them, I can get off just from getting them off. I like to watch people, when they're really gone on it. And I don't mind the taste."

I don't really have the words yet, to respond to that. I have to let it ricochet around in my brain for awhile first, taking in the idea of Chris Beck choking on somebody's cock, and it's... uh. Effective. It has an effect.

Chris just— waits. The Hermes makes its low, steady sounds like breathing.

"Can I?" I ask, finally. My voice croaks over the words.

He makes a low noise in his throat, and I don't know what it means. I've completely lost the knack for human interaction, much less interpreting subtle responses to sexual propositions.

"I'm not saying no," he says, but he's also standing up, flipping the top of his sleeping bag aside and heading toward the door on bare feet. "So don't move. I'll be right back." And then he goes out into the corridor, and swings the hatch shut behind him.

There are condoms on this ship. And lube, probably. Beck's the doctor, so he's got all that stuff in his supplies and knows exactly where it is. I'm kind of... wondering. If that's where he's gone. If he wants to be prepared in case I get more adventurous than just interstellar blowjobs. Maybe he wants to set the Guinness Record for Most Sex Had In Space.

He takes kind of a stupidly long time. You'd think a guy would be more eager to get his dick sucked. I know I wouldn't say no, but then, I've been slowly dying alone on Mars for sort of a long time. If he wanted to give me a hug I might cry and possibly come in my pants just from the human contact.

When he finally gets back, he does have a couple condoms in his hand, and he tosses them onto the bed next to me, like he's throwing the ball into my court. Or the prophylactics into my court, as it were.

"Beth's okay with it," he says, and this time he sits down next to me on the bed, instead of on the floor, because... because it'll be hard for me to get my mouth around his dick if he's on the floor, probably. Holy fuck. Wait, Beth? "Sorry I took so long. I just thought I should ask her, because we haven't really discussed if she wants to be exclusive; it hasn't really come up. We got together after you— after. And without you here we were both over two hundred million miles away from the nearest possible single human being, so."

"So you guys are— and you're seriously telling me she doesn't mind?"

"Well, I mean, she minds a little. Mostly just the timing, though. She said if there's an encore she'd like to watch, but right now she'd rather sleep and we kind of both thought springing a surprise threesome on you would be rude."

My brain gets a little stuck. I'm not going to pretend the moment is more dignified than it is, because my eyes are probably glazed over and "surprise threesome" keeps repeating in Beck's voice like there's an echo in my skull.

"Seriously?" I say, after a pause that's devoted mostly to contemplating and really enjoying the idea. Holy shit. "Holy shit. You're serious." This _can't_ be real. My luck isn't this good, particularly in the romance department. There's a reason I have trouble picking up women even though I'm a literal fucking astronaut.

I must sound kind of funny, because Beck says, "You can change your mind. I'm not going to push you. We can forget we ever talked about this."

"Fuck you," I sputter, and reach for him in the near-dark. My aim isn't particularly good, and I'm suddenly aware of exactly how skeletal my body is, how bony my fingers have become, as they meet the bare skin of his chest. I'm not aiming for anything in particular, I'm just, I need to feel skin under my hands and there it is, there he is, warm and alive and somehow real.

I think. Probably. It doesn't matter.

"Jesus, I know you work out, you're a fucking astronaut, but this is—"

"Mark," he says, that long-suffering tone I've become familiar with from every friend and family member ever. "We need to actually talk about this. Do you just want to blow me? Can I do you, too? Is kissing on the table? If you haven't done this before, then we need to talk about what you're comfortable with."

He's not even touching back, yet. This is already frustrating. I should have asked Vogel. I bet he's got weird hidden kinks.

"I haven't _sucked cock_ before, I've _had sex,_ Jesus, I'm not a total rookie here, Beck, can we just do it already?"

Beck sighs. Then he puts his hands over my hands and makes me stop touching him, probably because I was definitely straying toward dick territory. He does keep holding on to my hands, though, which I'm definitely not going to admit to him is really nice. "You might not have limits, but I do, okay? You need to call me 'Chris' if we're going to fuck. And just blowjobs or handjobs for now, okay? That's all Beth really agreed to for the moment, and I'm kind of— this isn't just because I'm the closest available human being, is it?"

He says it like a joke, but I think he's probably serious. He's a little insecure, for a guy who's literally been voted the world's most gorgeous astronaut. (There was an online poll. I didn't even vote for myself; when Beck's an option, a man's got to be real honest about his own level of attractiveness.)

"Chris," I say, so he knows I'm all about agreeing to his terms. "This is not just because all the other humans are hundreds of millions of miles away. I would really like to suck your individual dick." I'd like to do a lot of other things, too, if I think about it. I'm kind of distracted with what he might let me do, later. What we can get away with in the cramped confines of a fucking spaceship. What Commander Lewis will be willing to overlook and whether we can keep it a secret from Martinez because we would never hear the end of it if he—

Chris lets my hands go, and he drops his hand to my thigh instead, starts stroking it almost absently. “That’s good,” he says. “You’re using your words. Good boy.”

It’s kind of condescending. Maybe. Apparently, I’m super into it. I can feel myself getting hard in my shorts and I really want to push into his petting hand like I’m his pet or something.

“But I need you to answer my other questions,” he says, and his hand stops right at the top of my thigh, tantalizingly close to my dick.

“Uh,” I say, very intelligently. “What were the questions? Again?”

I don’t just hear him half-laugh at me; his breath washes across my cheek, too, and then his lips touch there, as well, and I’ve never almost jizzed myself before over a kiss on the cheek but there’s a first time for everything. “Can I kiss you?” he asks me, and his mouth hovers just shy of mine until I close the distance myself and kiss him.

It’s not graceful or particularly seductive. It’s kind of wet and I go straight for the tongue because I’ve always lacked finesse and I’m maybe a little over-eager. Chris doesn’t seem to mind; when he breaks off he’s smiling, I can feel the expression against my lips, and he flicks out the very tip of his tongue as he goes like a fond goodbye.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmurs. He’s got a hell of a bedroom voice. “Can I bring you off, too?”

Right. Questions. I can handle those. Really. There were a lot of tests involved in the selection process for Ares III. So many questions that I’m almost surprised none of them involved whether I wanted to sleep with any of my crewmates or whether I’d actually have a stroke if Chris Beck ever politely asked to touch my penis.

“Yeah, yes,” I manage, but when I try to kiss him again he holds me back, and that’s also hotter than it has any right to be. I kind of wonder if he’d be able to do that as easily if I weren’t half-starved. I wonder if I’d let him, just because that commanding tone he gets in his voice sometimes is enough all on its own.

“You want my hand?” he whispers, and he puts his lips against my throat, so soft I almost can’t even feel the touch, except when his mouth moves, when he speaks. “Or do you want my mouth?”

I say, “Fuck. Jesus. Anything. Anything you want, Chris, seriously, just let me—”

“Okay,” he says, soft. “Okay. It’s alright. I’ll give you what you need. Mark?”

“Yeah?” Thank god it’s dark. I’m pretty sure I’ve gone kind of starry-eyed and absent. His free hand strokes through my hair, and for just a second his fingers curl tight, gripping, holding.

“Get on your knees for me,” he says.

He lets me go and I sink straight to my knees like it's some kind of automatic response I'm only just discovering. It’s possible I call him Bossy Beck because I fucking _like it_ when he orders me around.

He lets go of my hair, which he probably figures is being considerate and I'm finding sort of surprisingly disappointing, so I grope blindly for one of his hands until I find it, and then I put it back where it belongs. He makes a little huffing noise, a not-quite-laugh, and his fingers start stroking gently over my scalp, soft strokes and delicate little scratches, and it's maybe the best thing I've ever felt in my life.

"Tell me what you like," he says, low and quiet, and I never knew this asshole had any of this in him, how did I spend so long in his company, traveling together into _space,_ without knowing this was there? "How do you like to be touched? What do you want me to do for you?"

I say, "Just let me," and I don't even finish the thought, because I pull down his sleep bottoms (they're all he fucking wears to bed, and yeah, I noticed that earlier when we settled in for the sleep cycle) and he braces himself with his one free hand, rolls his hips up in one sinuous movement that is _highly_ suggestive, or maybe that's just my mind filling in some serious blanks, touch-starved and sex-starved and half out of my fucking mind with the possibilities.

"You can tell me," he says. His voice is so steady it makes me want to punch him, a little. "You can tell me what you want. What did you think about, when you thought about me?"

I can't tell him. I'm not embarrassed by it, we've come this far, but there's too much. It'd take too much time, to say it; it's wasting time when we can just do it, just have it, when he's right there and I have permission.

He's getting hard just from talking to me about it, just from my mouth near where he wants it, but I want to see him really hard, I want to see him wet with my spit and straining for it, that's what I've thought about, that's it more than anything, not what it'd be like to suck him, not just another item on a checklist between Space Mountain and seeing the Louvre. I thought about _him_ , what it might be like if he wanted me back.

"Turn on the light," I say, and he does it, reaches over to flick a finger against the light panel and then leans back again on his free arm, still sifting his fingers through my hair, casual as hell. I always thought he was a little straight-laced, if I'm honest, like an absurdly virtuous boy scout. Sometimes when I'm wrong I'm just _really_ wrong.

I guess I space out for a minute, staring at his dick, but he doesn't hurry me along or anything, just keeps watching me like he’s seeing something worth looking at.

"You look good like this," he finally says, and his fingers dip down to touch my mouth again. "On your knees for me."

I probably shouldn’t be judgmental about Vogel’s theoretical kinks, because Chris clearly has him beat, and it’s turning out I’ve got some undiscovered country of my own to explore.

Exhibit A: Apparently I like to be bossed around during sex. Exhibit B: I'm over-ambitious when it comes to cock-sucking. And it's possible I've watched too much porn. When I go down on him I try to go all the way at once, and in case you've never made that mistake yourself, let me advise you to absolutely _not do it_. I come up coughing, sputtering, blinded by the tears in my eyes, and gasping for breath. I don't even have a real idea of what his dick tastes like, that's how quickly the whole thing went wrong. It's probably the least sexy thing I've ever done in my life.

"I was gonna save the dirty talk about you choking on my dick for later," Chris says, but he's got my face cradled between both his hands now and he's kind of curled down protectively over me, so I don't really mind that he makes me laugh, which makes me cough again. "You can slow down, you know. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know, you're _coming_ instead," I say, with a raspy new quality in my voice that I'm pretty sure is completely unattractive.

Chris snorts, and says, "Not anytime soon, if you're going to choke yourself. You want me to talk you through it?"

Normally that'd piss me off. Normally I'd feel condescended to and insulted and probably start a fight, if somebody suggested they wanted to teach me how to have sex. Normally, I wouldn't be fucking up my first (hopefully not last) opportunity to suck Chris Beck's dick, though.

Normally, I wouldn't be quite so into the idea of just letting go and letting somebody else tell me what to do and when to do it, but since just the suggestion makes my brain light up like a pinball machine, maybe I should have tried this ages ago.

"Yeah," I tell him, because clearly I need a little direction but also, it kind of seems like communication is one of his major turn-ons, for as much as he's pushed me to talk about what I want. Maybe if I let him take the wheel he'll get enough of a mind-shattering orgasm that he'll want to do this again. Possibly a lot. "Tell me how to do it. I want you to."

He says, "Okay," and pauses for a second, staring down at me, biting his lower lip. Yep, he's into it. I kind of wonder if Johanssen lets him boss her around in bed, too, but I have a completely impossible time imagining it. Her throwing him on the bed and riding him is a lot easier to picture.

And completely distracting. Jesus. If she really wants a threesome, I wonder if she might let me watch next time she blows his mind. Or next time she blows him. Maybe I can pick up some pointers.

"Try licking me first," Chris says, and his voice has gone a little more hushed, like he's afraid his voice could break some kind of spell between us and make me change my mind. _Really_ not happening. "Any way you like, just... get comfortable."

I'm tempted to lick like... his knee, or something, just to be an asshole. But he's looking down at me like I'm something wonderful, and I can't quite bring myself to do it. I lick the head of his cock instead, a single light swipe over the tip, my tongue running over the slit. There's a salty flavor to it, a little bitter; pre-come, I guess. Chris lets out a breath like I've done something amazing, so I try it again, more lingering this time, and use my hand to tug his foreskin down a little so I can get my lips around the head of his cock.

“That’s good,” he murmurs, soft and earnest, his fingers flexing against my scalp. Just the low tone of his voice sends a delicious little shiver down my spine, the way he says _good_ like it’s an incontrovertible part of my genetic make-up, like closing my lips this gently around his cock is all that’s required to make me worthwhile.

It’s a heady feeling, and I’m dizzy with it, or maybe that’s just the oxygen deprivation because I might be forgetting to breath, as I slide my mouth further down.

“Breathe,” Chris reminds me, in the same moment I’ve reminded myself and start desperately dragging air in through my nose. Chris’ fingers drift down over the span of my throat, and I swallow reflexively, which makes him curse under his breath, so I do it again.

I haven’t even managed to take half of him in, and in the history of blowjobs this will probably go down (go down, get it?) as one of the most unspectacular of all time. But I put my hands against Chris’ bare thighs, and I can feel the muscles there jump just a little, every time I shift or breathe or swallow, and Chris says my name like even that part of me is precious.

He says, “Mark. _Fuck,_ Mark, keep doing that,” and it’s kind of crazy, maybe, to think that all the suffering and pain and loneliness was worth it, just for this, but that’s _exactly_ what I think. I’m not sure most people would find it particularly profound or rewarding, most people wouldn’t write in their diaries, _Thank God I got through all that starvation and explosive decompression so I could be here today choking on this guy’s dick._ But most people wouldn’t qualify for a mission to Mars, either. I like to think my particular outlook on life, choking on cock and all, is part of what makes me uniquely qualified for the vagaries of space travel.

An astronaut’s got to be adaptable. After all this, I might have cornered the market on adaptable. So there’s no big identity crisis involved in getting my mouth around Chris Beck’s cock like it’s my new mission in life. It’s important to stay busy, especially when you’re still drifting your way through the slow, steady, and definitely incoming emotional breakdown from your _last_ mission.

I pull my head back, sucking _hard_ on the way, and Chris grunts like somebody’s punched him when I pop my mouth off of him (it actually makes the audible _pop_ sound of a releasing seal, this is great). I take a second to look at him, and I like what I see: he’s kind of glassy-eyed and he’s breathing hard, blinking at me like I’ve surprised him, which I probably have.

“Hey,” I say, really going for broke, “you think you could like, fuck my face? I always thought that would be hot.”

Chris gasps for air and tries to laugh at the same time, so he mostly sounds kind of strangled. “Always as in _always_ or always since you apparently started obsessing over my dick?”

I crouch back on my heels a little, and I swear his cock kinda twitches in my direction like it wants me to come back. I’m not going far, I think to it. I’ll get back to you in a second.

“You wanna fuck my face, or not?” I say. Some guys would be kinda pissed off about getting laughed at for something like that. Not me, though. Adaptable, like I said.

I might be a little put out, though, and maybe my face shows it, because Chris leans forward and cups my cheek with his palm, runs his thumb over my spit-slicked lips. “Maybe another time,” he says, with enough genuine regret in his voice that I can’t be real mad about it. “We’ll save it for a special occasion. When we get home, we’ll get through landing and recovery and when they finally leave us alone in the locker room to shower up I’ll hold you down and fuck your face as much as you want.”

I have to admit that sounds appealing, except— “Uh, Martinez and Vogel would be there, you know.”

Chris shrugs. “They’ll have to wait their turn if they want me to fuck their faces, too. You have first dibs, and I’m trying to be realistic about my refractory period.”

I have to muffle my laugh against his thigh, because it comes out a little more hysterical than I like to sound around my sexual partners. I gasp my way through it and then suck a hickey into the tender skin of his inner thigh, just to be vindictive.

He seems to like it, which is kind of par for the course at this point, so he’s smiling when he curls his fingers around my jaw and turns my face until my lips are brushing the head of his cock again.

“Thanks for the souvenir,” he says, “but that’s not where your mouth is supposed to be, is it?”

It’s not. I don’t bother to answer, just open my mouth to take him in again, and it’s easier this time, sinking down slowly around his dick, pressing my tongue up against the bottom to give him some good friction. There’s a lot to handle, though — and that isn’t a pun about the size of Beck’s dick, though it’s perfectly respectable — and it gets tiring quickly, having to keep my lips curled around my teeth and my jaw from locking up and myself from sinking down too far and choking again.

“Use your hand,” Chris says, curling his fingers around mine and guiding them to the base of his cock, wrapping them around, leading me into a stroke in counterpoint with the tentative bobbing of my head. “That’s good, Mark, you’re doing so good for me.”

I kind of want to flip him off, but it’d take too much coordination, plus I’m kind of distracted by the weight of him on my tongue, the taste of him in my mouth, the fact that I’m actually doing this.

I wasn’t bullshitting. I’ve had _fantasies._ This is better than I imagined, even if deep down I’m still wondering whether it’s a particularly vivid dream. Chris is being careful to hold himself still, and as much as I really _do_ want him to fuck my mouth — it just sounds hot — it’s probably best that he doesn’t, considering.

He even warns me when he’s going to come, pulls me off and up so he can kiss my mouth instead, closes his hand back over mine and jacks himself off with it, a couple quick strokes before he comes between us with his tongue in my mouth. The whole thing seems kind of gentlemanly, in a really dirty way.

He gasps, “Fuck, fuck, Mark,” against my mouth and runs his hands all over me like he can’t get enough, which is pretty good for my ego.

So I say, “Yeah, come on,” and squirm out of my boxers as well as I can, which means they end up kind of looped around one knee, and I can’t quite kick them off without possibly also kicking Chris, which I think would probably ruin the mood. He’s trying to get my t-shirt off at the same time, which is probably a good idea since it’s got rapidly-cooling jizz on it already, but if you’ve never tried to get your shirt and your underwear off at the same time, I’d like for you to learn from my mistake and know that it doesn’t work out very well. It’s not attractive, only getting your underwear halfway off.

Chris doesn’t actually seem to notice, at least, so it could be worse. He rolls me onto my back and covers me with his body which is one hundred percent the most fucking amazing thing I didn’t even know I wanted. He doesn’t even hold his weight up off me, much, just presses me down into the bunk and wraps his hand around my cock. His grip’s a little slippery, probably with his own come, but whatever it is works; I was already kind of hard, but now I’m all the way there, ready practically the second he touches me. He only gets three strokes in before I come all over myself, and if he’s disappointed with that he doesn’t show it.

I don’t even spare the energy to be self-conscious about it myself; I’m too busy wrapping my arms around him to make him stay exactly where he is, and I’m maybe sobbing like a baby against his neck.

He holds onto me, and keeps holding on. He kisses the tears off my cheeks. He’s a solid, heavy, reassuring weight on top of my body. I’m pretty sure that somehow, improbably, I’m really here, and this is really happening.

“Okay,” Chris whispers, his face pressed tight against mine, his mouth right next to my ear. “Go to sleep, Mark. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The Hermes makes her night noises, but the sound of Chris’ breathing, the weight and heat of his body, it’s all more immediate, more tangible. I’m really here. It’s over; it’s beginning. There’ll be plenty to do later: Beck’s careful re-feeding schedule, experiments in the bio lab, more of this, maybe with Beth. It’s easy to imagine the rest, too: the two of them holding onto my hands as we step back onto _terra firma._ (I might beg them, I’m not proud.) One of those souvenir pictures of the three of us riding Space Mountain. It’ll all happen, with time, and time isn’t something that has to terrify me anymore.

I’m home. I hold on tight, and let go.


End file.
